


Immobile Home

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Light Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are the founding members of a popular rock duo. Everyone assumes the "brothers" thing is just a gimmick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immobile Home

"I can’t believe you," Sam said, his voice breaking the uncomfortably thick silence that they’d been sitting in since he’d driven Dean home from the station. Dean stubbed out his cigarette, avoided looking Sam in the eye. "Don’t turn this into a big thing, okay? They’ll probably just hit us with a fine; nothing we can’t handle."   
  
"Dean," Sam said, his voice sharp with restrained anger, "You nearly fucking  _killed_  the guy.” Dean scoffed, scratching at the dried blood crusted over his knuckles. “I’d barely even gotten started before the cops showed up. He got lucky.”   
  
"Jesus Christ," Sam groaned, burying his head in his hands. "I’m at the end of my rope with you. Think of what the press will make of this, or hell—the fans."  
  
"The fans’ll probably like it. It’s been a while since my first arrest; they were getting bored with me."   
  
"That’s not funny."   
  
"Oh c’mon, Sam. Lighten up." Sam dragged his hands away from his face and glared stonily at Dean, looking like he was  _this_  close to snapping. “Don’t fucking tell me to lighten up, you violent asshole. What’d Brady ever do to you, huh?” It was Dean’s turn to scowl, his eyes going dark as he looked off to the side. “You know why I did it. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you.” 

Abruptly, Sam reached over the table and yanked Dean towards him by the collar of his leather jacket, staring him right in the face. Dean squirmed, but held his gaze. ”Yeah, I do know why. It’s ‘cause you can’t shake the goddamn idea that I  _belong_  to you, that if I get close to anyone who isn’t you, I’ll dump you and run off with them like I’ve supposedly been itching to do my whole life.” Dean curled his lip. “Won’t you? You’ve already fuckin’ got one foot out the door.”   
  
"And whose fault is that?" Sam said irritably, gripping Dean’s collar tighter. Dean drove him nuts on a regular basis, made him want to turn violent himself, smash through the skins of his drums until his fingers bled to match his heart. "Dean, please," Sam begged, desperation replacing the anger in his voice. "Please decide. You can’t keep me leashed to you forever because you’re afraid to settle on what you want." Dean breathed out through his nose, his calloused fingers reaching up to frame Sam’s face. "Why not?"   
_  
Because you’re not good for me_ , Sam thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say. He covered Dean’s hands with his own and pulled them down so he could take a look at Dean’s knuckles, bloody and swollen, his old wounds split open. “Hold on a sec,” Sam said, then got to his feet and grabbed the first aid kit from his bag. When he took a seat in front of Dean once more, Dean was lighting his third cigarette, eyebrows knitted together with something akin to frustration. “Quit that,” Sam commanded, nodding at the cigarette. He  _loathed_  Dean’s smoking habit, but nothing he’d ever said or did had effectively convinced Dean to stop, so he’d eventually given up. Surprisingly, Dean listened to him for once, dropping it into the ashtray and sitting forward expectantly.   
  
Sam pulled Dean’s right hand onto the table and cleaned off the blood and dirt caking his fingers before gingerly applying Neosporin to each knuckle. Dean just watched quietly, and after Sam had finished bandaging his hand, he stood up and went around to Sam’s side of the table. “I need to do your other hand,” Sam said, but he didn’t say it very insistently, because he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, Dean grabbed Sam by his shirt and dragged him into a bruising kiss. Sam responded just as eagerly, opening his mouth for Dean’s tongue and tasting the pungent smoke on his breath, twisting his hands in the worn leather of their late father’s jacket. “Bed,” Dean grunted in between kisses, and broke away momentarily to push Sam up and in the direction of the nearest mattress, shoving him onto it and crawling on top of him, his limbs caging Sam in and his mouth trailing wetly over Sam’s bared neck.   
  
Sam’s chest felt tight with need, his skin hot and his pulse soaring, as Dean ripped open Sam’s shirt and tugged on the waistband of his pants, unzipping his own jeans soon after. They hadn’t done this in weeks, which made them all the more frenzied, all the more willing to cut the foreplay short in favor of the main event. Later, when they were coming down together, as sweaty and breathless as they got at the end of a concert, Sam wondered if he’d ever be strong enough to turn Dean away. 

* * *

The noise and lights sometimes got to be too much for Sam. He’d feel himself begin to lock up, his fingers sliding precariously over his drumsticks, his head throbbing in time to the beat he was pounding out. Mysteriously, Dean would usually catch on not a moment too soon, striding over to the mic positioned in front of Sam’s drum kit and singing into that one instead, keeping eye contact with Sam all the while. It worked like a charm, Dean’s powerful voice and glinting eyes anchoring him to the present; not to the crowd of roaring spectators or to the blinding spotlight, but to him and Dean, intimately connected through the song they were playing together. 

_Slip out of my skin and borrow yours instead, it’s easier to concentrate when I’m inside your head_.   
  
They’d sing together, Dean loudly and into the mic, Sam softly and to nobody but Dean, tossing his moist bangs out of his face every so often to afford himself an unobstructed view of his brother.   
  
_Blood on my mouth and blood on your fists, bright-eyed smart guys running with fugitives. If you try to dodge my pursuit, I’ll stumble right across the sea in my old seven-league boots. And when the cold starts to take root, I’ll say, hey, guess that Goethe guy got it right anyway. Yeah, ‘cause your affection and your grief are like typhlotic mist, you push them at me but still I insist, on letting them go and laughing them off, and when you take me over, I can only scoff._  
  
At some point, Dean would break away from the mic to strum out a guitar solo, his fingers flying over the neck of his Rancher, his L-1, or his Stratocaster, depending on the song. Sam would keep his eyes on him the whole time, watching Dean’s broad back as he shifted and shook and played like it was his last show. His soaring final chords would preclude Sam’s conclusive cymbal crash, and he’d turn back to Sam and offer him a private grin as the crowd broke into deafening applause. Sam would return the grin, brush the hair out of his eyes and struggle to catch his breath before setting his sticks down and joining Dean center stage. They’d raise their clasped hands skyward momentarily, Dean would utter a quick  _thank-you_  into the microphone, and they’d be gone, offstage so quickly in the wake of their booming performance that it was like they were figments of the audience’s imagination. 

* * *

_The following transcript is excerpted from an interview conducted on October 14, 2009 with “Immobile Home” band members Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester_.

* * *

**Interviewer:**  There’s been a lot of speculation over the Internet about the nature of your relationship, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Care to comment on the rumors?   
**Sam:**  I mean, people read too much into this stuff, right? It’s like—   
**Dean:**  It’s like they’re, uh, seeing what they wanna see, I guess. Sh*t, we’re  _brothers_ , but there’s still all this weird talk about us being like, I dunno, uh…  
**Sam:**  Using that as a cover story? For our  _alternative lifestyle_?   
**Dean:**  Yeah, that’s it. Pretty skeevy, if you ask me. I’ve known this guy since he was first learning to walk.   
**Interviewer:**  Would you say your dynamic has changed at all since you were younger?   
**Dean:**  Well, he doesn’t piss the bed anymore, so that’s a plus.   
**Sam:**  Dean!   
**Dean:**  [Laughs] Sorry, sorry. No, he’s—he hasn’t changed too much. I feel like we’re kinda, like—we’ve been  _static_  over the years. Dunno if he’d agree with me there.   
**Sam:**  [Hums]   
**Dean:**  What, got nothing to say? That’s a first.  
**Interviewer:**  It is?   
**Dean:**  Hell, you guys don’t even know. This one can’t shut up when the cameras are off, but soon as you get him in the public eye, he swallows his tongue.   
**Sam:**  Better than talking entirely too much, isn’t it?   
**Dean:**  Shut up.   
**Sam:** You shut up.   
**Interviewer:**  Okay, so, back to business—I’ve always been curious about whether the songs you write are based on personal experiences.   
**Sam:**  They aren’t.  
**Dean:**  [Pauses] What he said.   
**Interviewer:**  Would you mind elaborating a little on your writing process?   
**Dean:**  Uh, so…I kinda write, like, the spine of most of our songs, like—  
**Sam:**  He figures out the music and the themes most of the time. I fill in the rest.   
**Dean:**  Yeah, he sticks in all the big words for me.   
**Sam:**  [Laughs] That’s what he keeps me around for, basically.   
**Dean:**  Seriously, though, a lot of it is collaborative. I write half, he writes the other half. Couldn’t do it without him.   
**Sam:**  Aw.  
**Dean:**  F*ck you.   
**Interviewer:**  Do you feel as if you’d be able to work more efficiently if there were more members in the band?  
**Dean:**  Obviously, things would be easier that way, but I’m honestly not looking to let anyone else into the band. They’d probably just f*ck up what’s been working for us for five years.   
**Sam:**  Who would you replace me with if you finally got sick of me?   
**Dean:**  Oh, man. So many superior drummers to choose from.   
**Sam:**  I know, right? Bela Talbot, Gordon Walker, Benny Lafitte…  
**Dean:**  Tyson Brady…  
**Sam:**  Hilarious.   
**Interviewer:**  Speaking of—  
**Sam:**  We decline to comment on that.  
**Interviewer:**  [Clears throat] Alright, one last question. Are you happy with what the band’s become since its start as an obscure favorite on the Kansas garage rock scene?   
**Dean:**  I’d say so, yeah. I think we’re still kinda going at it the same way we did when nobody knew who we were. Which is a point of pride for me; we haven’t changed our image or our sound much since we first started out, and I want it to stay that way.  
**Interviewer:**  Anything to add, Sam?   
**Sam:**  I think he covered it. I’ve always been proud of the band, no matter where it’s been in terms of critical success.    
**Dean:**  I love you too, Sammy.   
**Sam:**  Jerk.  
**Dean:** Can I say ‘bitch’ on network TV?   
**Sam:**  You used ‘f*ck’ like five times during this interview already.   
**Dean:**  Sh*t, really?   
**Sam:**  There you go again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing lyrics is REALLY HARD. I'm kind of annoyingly verbose so any songs I'd hypothetically write would be a rhythmic mess.


End file.
